


something always brings me back to you (it never takes too long)

by LMoriarty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Banshee Powers, Bucket List, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Happy Ending, Hot Chocolate, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, Light Angst, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, very very very light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMoriarty/pseuds/LMoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Except now she's here, standing on the front porch of the Stilinski residence, standing in front of Stiles— and she's <i>wailing</i>. Screaming as loud as she can, the loudest she ever has, and that means— it means—</p>
<p>Stiles is going to die.</p>
<p>aka: Lydia predicts Stiles' death, but instead of panicking, they drink hot chocolate and talk bucket lists. She's not going to let the boy she loves die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something always brings me back to you (it never takes too long)

Ever since the supernatural became part of Lydia Martin's reality, everything she's ever thought to be true has changed. Werewolves, kanimas, _banshees_ — her worldview has completely shifted to support these truths, and with it, the rest of her life; all of it turning out to be varying degrees of false.

Except for one thing.

Except for this:

Stiles Stilinski is in love with her.

He's dated other people, sure, is currently even dating Malia, but both of them know that at the end of the day it will always be her. It has to be, with or without his five-year-plan turned ten-year-plan turned infinite-year-plan.

The thing is, she _doesn't_ love him back. And that's not going to change, no matter what they go through, because... why would it? Lydia owes him — and every other boy like him, because there are plenty — absolutely nothing, and she _knows_ that, knows it in the very core of her being, knows it so well that she wrote it on her goddamn _mirror_ in the ugliest shade of lipstick she's ever owned. She's more than aware of this fact.

But then they're _talking_ to each other, friends through association, and he takes her to _Winter Formal_ , and— it still isn't enough to change her mind, it isn't even close, but maybe there's _something_. A possibility.

A _chance_.

Which is, of course, precisely when he decides to let his hair grow out. Aesthetics do in fact matter, especially to _Lydia_ , and somehow they become friends through _friendship_ instead.

And then... things happen. Many things, all of it building up to the moment where she writes his name down on the godawful Deadpool, to the moment where he points it out, to the moment where Lydia stares down at the page and thinks: _I don't want you to die_.

Thinks: _I don't want to lose you_.

Thinks: _I don't want to live in a world without you_.

To the moment where she realizes that this, all of this, is because she _likes_ him.

This is, of course, not particularly great timing, considering he's dating Malia. So Lydia retreats, becomes 'just a friend', and focuses her energy on learning more about being a banshee. About her ability to always, without fail, find dead bodies. Somehow, she thinks that takes priority over the guy she likes dating a werecoyote.

She's right, of course.

She always is.

So Lydia focuses. Comes to grip with her powers, with her _screams_ , and accepts the fact that she can't control it. That, even if she could, it's her duty to her friends and to her pack to find those that she's drawn to.

Sometimes, she finds them before they die, and other times, after. Eventually, it stops affecting her; the paleness of corpses, and the way blood so easily stains clothing. _Death_ stops affecting her. 

At least, she _thought_ death stopped affecting her. 

Except now she's here, standing on the front porch of the Stilinski residence, standing in front of Stiles— and she's _wailing_. Screaming as loud as she can, the loudest she ever has, and that means— it means— 

Stiles is going to die.

_Stiles Stilinski_ is going to die.

Lydia doesn't want that, has _never_ wanted that— not even when he was being particularly aggravating, or when he wouldn't give up on her even though she made it clear she wanted him to, or when he was the fucking _nogitsune_ Throughout all of that, all of the times she's wanted to pull her hair out thanks to him, he's still been _Stiles_ ; the guy that took her to Formal, who slept at the hospital she was admitted to, who she _kissed_ just because she once read holding your breath could stop panic attacks. 

_That's_ the guy she fell for. 

And that's the guy whose death she just announced. 

"Any chance your powers have evolved and your screams mean that someone is going to live for a very, very long time?" Stiles asks, hopefully. He quickly glances around the neighborhood to see if anyone saw her, to see if anyone _heard_ her, but Lydia knows nobody did; as little control as she has, she's able to ensure that much. 

She shakes her head, eyes wet. "No," she says. Lydia struggles to find something to say, some way to reassure him, to insist that he's not going to die, that he can't, that _she won't let him_. "No." 

"I was afraid you would say that," he says. Stiles pushes the front door open further, in the process stepping back inside his house. "Do you want to come in? I can... I don't know, make hot chocolate or something?"

Lydia doesn't hesitate, crossing the threshold and entering his house with ease. "I don't think hot chocolate stops people from dying, Stilinski," she says, then winces. It's far too soon to make _jokes_ , at least it is for her. Stiles doesn't look like he particularly minded. 

"No, but it tastes good," he tells her. Stiles leads her to the kitchen, apparently serious about the hot chocolate. "Besides, we don't actually know _when_ I'll— or if I will at all. Derek was supposed to, and he didn't."

"You're not... exactly wrong," she says, because he's technically _not_ , "but he _did_ evolve."

"Maybe I can evolve too," he says. 

Lydia looks at him for a long moment. It's a nice sentiment, and she's willing to entertain any possibility that doesn't end with him dying, but this one seems a bit far fetched. "You're human," she reminds him. "I don't think it works like that, Stilinski."

"Stiles," he corrects. 

Lydia raises an eyebrow. 

"Stilinski's my dad," says Stiles. Then, he adds, "And I like the way you say my— I mean. I prefer being called Stiles."

"Not Mieczysław?" she asks, and knows damn well that her pronunciation is flawless. Lydia can speak fluent _Latin_ — one word in Polish is easy in comparison. 

He stares. "Oh my god," he says, quietly. "That is so attract— cool. So cool."

"Isn't it?" agrees Lydia. She goes to say something else, perhaps something that'll provoke a _complete_ compliment, but is vividly reminded of Malia. Her friend, and his _girlfriend_ — how awful would that make her, if she keeps flirting with him? "I'm... the coolest." She grimaces, though Stiles doesn't notice as he's fiddling with a kettle. 

"You sure are," mumbles Stiles. Lydia doesn't think she's supposed to hear, but she does, and can't help but smile. 

_Remember what it feels like?_ Allison asks her, once upon a time. _All of those times in school when you see him standing down the hall, and you can't breathe until you're with him. Or those times in class when you can't stop looking at the clock because you know that he's standing right out there waiting for you. Don't you remember what that's like?_

She gets that, now. 

It's how she feels about Stiles. 

"I don't want you to die," Lydia confesses, quiet enough that she doubts he'll hear her. Luck, of course, isn't on her side. 

"I don't want me to die either," he offers, pouring hot water into two separate mugs. Stiles grabs a spoon and mixes the powder into their drinks, before sliding one over to her. "I have a whole list of things I still want to do."

Lydia takes a sip, then places the mug back down on the counter. It's _good_. "You have a bucket list?" she asks.

"It's kinda stupid, I know, but," Stiles shrugs, looking away. "I sorta figured, with all the werewolves in town and our constant influx of villains, eventually... I wouldn't make it. And there were all these things that I hadn't done, that I _wanted_ to do, so I just started writing them down, you know? Some were just cause there was room left, but others," he looks back at her. "I don't know. Others are important."

Lydia has her own list, of course, but she imagines it's quite different from Stiles'. Hers is more about wearing certain brands, graduating valedictorian, getting a scholarship to an Ivy League school— important life stuff. She has a feeling his will have more meaningful items on it. "What's number one?" 

Watching Stiles' face slowly turn beat red is one of the most amusing sights she's ever seen. "I mean it's just, uh," he stammers, "not... important?"

"You just said some of them are important," Lydia points out, drinking some more of her hot chocolate. "And number one _has_ to be. But if you don't want to tell me—"

"No, it's not that, it's just," Stiles sighs. "It's just embarrassing. Um, number one is lose my virginity. So. There's that."

"You and Malia have never—"

"Never," he interrupts. "We've slept in the same bed and stuff, and made out or whatever, just. Never sex. I didn't... want to, I guess."

Lydia can't help but stare. He's a hormonal teenage boy just as much as anyone else, and yet he doesn't _want_ to have sex? It's hard to believe, but it'd be unkind to laugh or make a joke about it so she keeps quiet. "What's number two?" asks Lydia, trying her best to ignore the little voice in her head saying _thank god they haven't slept together yet_. 

"Oh, oh no," he says, "definitely not. That's _way_ more embarrassing."

She smiles at him, charming as she can. Lydia once heard him taking to Scott about her beautiful smile, and she's not above using that to her advantage. "Please?" she urges. "For me?"

"Okay, in my defense," Stiles tells her, "I wrote this, like... a long time ago. Back when I first found out Scott was a werewolf."

She drains the rest of the hot chocolate, though keeps the mug in her hands; the warmth is comforting, when faced with the probability of his dead. "So?" prompts Lydia. "What is it?" She can't imagine anything more surprising than him still being a virgin, but if anyone can shock her, she knows it'll be Stiles. 

"To kiss the girl I've had a crush on since third grade," he admits. "Which... well, you probably know this, I was always super obvious, but. That's, uh. That's you."

Lydia freezes. "I knew you liked me," she says, because _everyone_ knew that. But— christ, _third grade_? Lydia hadn't started hiding who she was yet. If he had just _talked_ to her then maybe they would've been friends, _more_ than friends, maybe she wouldn't be agonizing over the fact that he's dating Malia instead. "Though, I wasn't... aware that it had been for that long. Do you still—"

"I broke up with Malia," admits Stiles, and Lydia's heart _stops_ , but no. No. _No_ , she can't be happy about this, Malia's her friend, she should be upset on her behalf but _shit_ , she's happy. More than happy, she's _ecstatic_. Goddamn it. "And she told me that she had been expecting it for awhile, because she knew I had never gotten over you. And she said— she said that I might be surprised by your reaction, if I were to ever tell you. Which, I don't know how that's possible because you're just staring at me, and that's the exact reaction I wanted to _avoid_ , so—"

Lydia places her empty mug back down on the counter, heart racing. "Number two, you said?" she comments, stepping closer, then even closer. "I think that's doable." She presses her hand against his chest, fingers trailing up his shoulder, curling around the back of his neck. 

Stiles stares at her, wide-eyed. "Lydia—"

"I'm going to kiss you now, if that's all right," she says. They're so _close_ now, and this shouldn't be scary — they've done it before, technically — but it _is_ , because there's no panic attack to blame it on, just her and her feelings, and him and _his_. 

He swallows, hard. "Yeah," Stiles says. "That's— yep. All right. Super."

Lydia leans in those last few inches, pressing her lips against his. Part of her expects Stiles to be an awful kisser, but he isn't, kissing back slow and gentle. His mouth tastes like hot chocolate and she chases after it, deepening a kiss that probably would've only lasted a few more seconds to a kiss that lasts ten, twenty, thirty. 

She twists them around, back digging into the counter for a moment before she hops onto its surface. Lydia wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer without breaking off the kiss. His hands are on either side of her, laid flat on the smooth counter, and she has to drag them to her hips herself. Once they're there, he's fine, fingers pressing against her skin with careful strength. 

The kiss itself stays at a steady pace, instead of turning frantic with their movements. There's nothing spectacular about it, as far as kisses go, but it's... nice. Intimate. The sort of kiss people have when they've been together for ten, twenty years, not two minutes. 

Stiles pulls back, face flushed. "So," he says. "Was that, like, a one-off thing, or—"

Lydia kisses him again, this time just for a second. "Not a one-off thing," she tells him. "After the whole Deadpool ordeal, I... realized that I cared for you, romantically. But you were with Malia, so I just," she shrugs, "ignored it to the best of my ability. Now that you aren't with her— I'm single, is all I'm saying. And if you were to ask me out, I would say yes."

Stiles smiles, and it lights up the room, lights up her _heart_. "Lydia Martin," he says, with his hands on her hips and his body between her legs, "would you please make me the happiest man on this planet and become my girlfriend?"

She grins back. "I would love to, Stiles," she says. Lydia winks. "Mieczysław."

"That's so hot," he tells her, briefly pressing his lips against hers. "But, uh. Not to kill the mood or anything, but you _were_ just screaming my death, so... are you sure you really want to be dating me right now?"

"I'm not going to let you die," Lydia promises. "Not ever. Not for anything. We don't know yet what the threat will be, or why you'll be in danger— but you're not dying, Stiles. Not on my watch." She brushes her thumb across his face, along his cheekbone. "And if you do, I'll bring you back. I have practice at that, as you can no doubt recall."

"Okay," he concedes. "Okay. So... I'm dating Lydia Martin, huh? That's number three on my bucket list, you know."

"You're just speeding through your list now," she says. "Two _and_ three in one night? Impressive."

Stiles laughs. "And all thanks to you."

"Well, if it's all thanks to _me_ ," Lydia winks, tightening her legs around him, "then how about we go ahead and check off number one?"

"Oh my god," he says, "you are—"

"Magnificent?" she suggests. "I know."

Stiles grins, strengthening his grasp on her hips and pulling her down off the counter. There's a brief period of adjustment where he stabilizes himself, and then he's walking, carrying her up to his room. Lydia doesn't know what they'll do — has a feeling they'll probably just make out, rather than have sex — but armed with the knowledge that, whatever it is, it'll be with _Stiles_... she's happy. 

She's really, really happy. 

That's something else the supernatural has added to her life: real, legitimate joy. She hadn't been happy before, not really, not when she was hiding who she was and dating an asshole. But now—

Stiles loves her. 

And Lydia loves him back.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @ laniemoriarty.


End file.
